How Does Your Garden Grow?
by Glory1863
Summary: He came from a race of avid gardeners but wondered why he had been planted in so inhospitable a place, that is, until he was assigned to Enterprise.


I originally posted this over at Warp 5 since the inspiration for it, Qzeebrella's beautiful drabble series "Rain Dance" is there. Somewhere in the middle of that work I started to see Malcolm in plant terms. I'm not saying that's logical, just that it happened. I have to warn you, though, that I'm not a gardener. Any African violet leaving the florist's shop with me is definitely a "dead plant walking."

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

Old English nursery rhyme

How Does Your Garden Grow?

He came from a race of avid gardeners who took pride in anything from a small planter box in the window to a magnificent formal garden with a maze. As a young child, he was allowed a small plot of his own in his mother's garden. The soil wasn't the best there or the light either. It had been stressed to him that gardening was serious business, not just playing in the dirt and making mud pies. He was to buy his own plants, so he carefully saved his pence. He was given an allowance, not for the chores he was expected to do as a member of the family but as a means of teaching him fiscal responsibility: 10 percent went into long-term savings for when he was grown; 10 percent went into the collection plate at church; a set amount was returned to his parents for room and board and a budget was devised for his school uniform, other school supplies, meals and the like when he was at school. There was never much left over for his pleasure, but what there was he put in the small tin box on the shelf over his bed. Sometimes, the already small, thin child skipped meals so there would be more money to put toward his plants.

The day finally came when his mother took him to the florist to purchase his plants. His mother bought flats of many fine, sturdy seedlings in a dazzling array of colors, sizes and varieties, but he found that, despite his best efforts at saving, he could not afford those. There were bruised and damaged plants available at a discount. He bought some of those in the belief that if he worked very hard at caring for them, then they would become strong and healthy. He was a medically frail child with many allergies, including pollens, trees, grasses and some fruit, although, thankfully, nothing in his mother's garden. Under a doctor's care he always recovered. He saw no reason it shouldn't be so for his plants, and surely his mother would share her extensive knowledge of horticulture with him.

He'd been wrong on all counts. He was told that his garden plot was his responsibility and his alone. Whatever he needed to learn, he must learn on his own. He found out too late that some of the plants were inappropriate for his plot. Some needed extra nutrients, but he had no money left for that. Despite his love and care, the plants shriveled and died, all except a scraggly geranium that rewarded him with a few bright crimson blooms. He named the plant "Nelson" after the small but scrappy Admiral of the Red. He tended "Nelson" faithfully and spent much time talking to him. He was a lonely child with no friends. It hurt that this plant, which gave him such joy, was the laughingstock of the neighborhood. It hurt even more when he overheard his mother telling his father that she knew his attempt at gardening would fail but that she had allowed him to waste his carefully saved money to teach him a lesson.

He didn't give up, though. The next year, when he went to the florist, he avoided the sick and scrawny plants. He still couldn't afford the manifestly healthy seedlings his mother bought, but he was intrigued by the bins of discount bulbs that he could afford. He asked the florist many questions, starting with, "Do these weird things really grow into flowers?" When assured that they did, with pictures shown to back up the claim, he asked if they cost less because they were sick or hurt. His mother was appalled by the blunt directness of his question. She expected her son to have much better manners. She took no responsibility for his wariness and failed to take into account that at his young age he could be expected to lack a certain degree of sophistication in understanding the ways of the retail world as well as in expressing himself. No, he was told, they were simply overstocks of varieties that for some reason hadn't sold well.

He described his plot as best he could and asked what would grow well there. He asked if they needed special food. Only then did he make his purchase. He didn't spend all his money this time, just in case he found later that he had been mislead and his plants did require additional nutrients or pest control. Because the bulbs had been mixed together in the bins, he had no idea what, if anything, would actually grow. He wavered between fearing that he had been tricked again, despite his careful questioning, and hoping that, with his care, something wonderful would emerge. This time he wasn't disappointed. A wild perfusion of dahlias, gladioli and ranunculus joined "Nelson" and filled his small plot. Unfortunately, once again, his plants didn't meet the expectations of others. He was told that they were poorly arranged, unattractive in color and poorly matched. Sadly, the criticism dimmed his joy in his success and in their beauty.

As he grew, he came to see himself as being much like his plants. He thought himself to be scrawny and unappealing in appearance with an unattractive pale coloration and strange blue-gray eyes. He knew the cardinal rule of the floral world was to bloom where you were planted, but he couldn't help but wonder why he had been placed in such rocky soil so lacking in nourishment and light. It was difficult to put down roots and more difficult still for tender shoots to make their way to the surface and break through the hard, arid crust. His timing always seemed to be off as well. He either emerged into the winter-like frost of his mother's disapproval or into the blazing heat of his father's anger. He found no comforting warmth or refreshing coolness. He tried to believe that, like the strange-looking bulbs, he had something wonderful inside, some skill or talent to offer to the delight of others if they would only cultivate him, if they would show him even the slightest bit of care and nurturance. But no matter how hard he worked or what he accomplished, he was met only with criticism and began to wilt.

By the time he was a young man, he had come to realize that while one should bloom where one was planted, he wasn't precluded, as were his plants, from uprooting himself and seeking out a better, more hospitable plot. He had decided that he wanted to fly among the stars, not sail upon the waves as his father wished him to do. He was an air plant like the deceptively fragile-appearing orchid, not a water plant like the placid water lily or the immense kelp that could foul a ship's propellers and bring things to a grinding halt. In the face of his father's ultimatum - his way or the highway - he packed his few belongings and left for Star Fleet's Academy in San Francisco. The only thing he missed was "Nelson." Under his almost obsessive care, the scraggly little geranium had become healthy and filled out nicely with a profusion of bright red blooms that were a welcome sight after a trying day, but he knew Customs would never allow him to bring the plant into the country. He felt as if he were leaving his only friend behind.

He met with mixed success at the Academy. He was an intelligent, curious, disciplined and hard-working student. His behavior was exceedingly polite and correct; thus he was a model cadet. The combination made him a favorite with his instructors who considered him "best in show" and used his abilities, many of them innate, to their own benefit when it came time to be granted tenure. With his peers, the story was much the same, though their use of him was much more obvious and direct. He was too quiet, too serious, too shy, too intense, too studious. The list went on and on. Oh, he was welcome in the cram sessions before exams and was sought out for a copy of his meticulous notes for the 8 a.m. Monday class by those who had been too hung over to attend, but the bottom line was that in their estimation he had nothing to offer them that would make it worth their while to actively cultivate a meaningful relationship with him. He graduated first in his class but went home to an empty apartment. He had no one with whom to share his success, not even a potted plant. He'd never tried to replace "Nelson." He hadn't thought it possible or right to do so.

He worked his way through a series of postings where once again he seemed to be valued only for his work skills, not for any purely personal qualities. He felt that he was treated more like a tool, like a hoe, rake or trowel, than a living thing. He didn't go dormant exactly, but he didn't bloom luxuriantly either. Eventually, new orders came and he was transplanted once again, this time to a shiny new pot in the form of Earth's first warp 5 vessel, the _Enterprise_. Like the rest of the crew, he had been chosen because he was the best at his job. His job was weapons, tactics and security.

He knew, of course, that many plants were grown merely to be consumed for food, fiber, fuel, lumbar or drugs. In his line of work, he was clearly one of those. As the Vulcans said, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one, and he was the one that was expendable in the defense of the many. He was the one who was meant to be scythed down. His mistake all along had been to think that he was an ornamental meant to give pleasure and to receive care in return.

This time he was prepared. Strict formality; a no-nonsense, business-like approach and a dry, if not bitingly ironic or satirical sense of humor were the thorns he'd grown to protect himself from the others. His new crewmates, however, didn't seem to notice. They asked to join him for meals in the mess hall even if he seemed engrossed in working out a duty schedule or solving an EM field problem. When he scanned the crowded mess hall searching for a place to sit, they called to him and made room at their table. They invited him to movie night and made note of his choices on the rare times when he accepted their invitations. Whenever he demurred, they accepted his decision but suggested he join them next week for the Bond film or in two weeks for the war movie. On his birthday, they went to considerable trouble to find that pineapple was his favorite food, and Chef had baked a luscious pineapple cake for him. Despite his careful plans, he found himself opening up to them like the petals on a rose.

Then came that terrible day when he'd been pinned to the hull by the Romulan mine like some sort of pressed flower on display. The captain should have cut him loose and left him to drift in space like a tumbleweed in the John Wayne and Clint Eastwood westerns the captain loved so much. He should have extirpated him like the dangerous, noxious weed he was, before he could bring harm to the garden that was _Enterprise_, but he hadn't. Afterward, the captain had tried to explain: Didn't he understand that the crew valued him for himself, not just his job description?

The one who surprised him the most, though, was the chief engineer. He had a knack for being like the daffodils and yellow tulips of spring whose bright color brought a smile to everyone's lips, but they hadn't gotten on well at first. The chief engineer could be every bit as prickly as a cactus. He'd had to prove to the man that he was as talented an engineer in his field of expertise, that of weapons design and EM fields, as the chief engineer was in his, that being warp theory. Only then had things begun to change. They had a profession in common, more or less, and the chief engineer had actively wanted to know what else they might share, so he'd learned to be patient and how to work his way past the thorns relatively unscathed.

They'd ended up in the shuttlepod with no light, no warmth, no nourishment (beyond a bottle of bourbon) and very little hope of being rooted again in the relative safety that was _Enterprise_. The chief engineer, the bright golden one, had quickly faded, but had made him an extraordinary offer. The chief engineer had been willing to cull himself out to give him a better chance to survive. No one had ever treated him this way before. Despite the fact that he had always sought nurturance and care, when it came down to it, it was an offer he couldn't accept. He'd actually pulled a phase pistol on a senior officer in order to dissuade him as he struggled to explain. All his life he'd wanted such a friend. Now that he had one . . . well, they'd live or die **together**. He was a physically brave man. He could face the reaper alone if there was a point to it, but he saw no point to it in this instance. He'd been right. At the last moment, when they'd both felt as if they were hot house plants that had been mistakenly consigned to the permafrost, they'd been rescued. He'd continued to bloom just as their friendship did.

Perhaps he should have known it was all too good to be true. The Xindi came to Earth like one of the biblical plagues, and everything green and living in their path was destroyed. They left only desolation in their wake, desolation that made itself felt on _Enterprise._ In the turn of a leaf, the friends who had nurtured him, cultivated him, encouraged him to grow and bloom and had taken joy in it became people he barely recognized. The captain gave orders that were as heart-stopping as if he had become a deadly nightshade. The chief engineer had lost his little sister, one of so many mown down by the Xindi. He might still be golden, but he'd become poisonous like croton oil. The chief engineer's anger and sarcasm left him speechless as if he had bitten into a dumb cane. Contact with him was as painful as a fall into poison oak. The garden that had been _Enterprise_ reminded him more and more of Shakespeare's description of France toward the end of _Henry V:_ "Nothing teems but hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, losing both beauty and utility."

When he'd first come aboard, he would have gone dormant in the face of such adversity. Now, however, he couldn't. These people had given him so much and meant so much to him. It was his duty to protect them, even from themselves. Although he knew he lacked the skill, he tried everything he could think of to help. He offered quiet condolence like the muted shades of the chrysanthemums of fall. He offered support and encouragement like the bright red shades of "Nelson", his favorite plant of long ago. When everything failed, he simply offered companionship like simple green foliage that was a reminder that life existed, and that as long as it did, hope existed as well. In the end, that had been enough.

When _Enterprise_ returned to Earth after destroying the Xindi weapon, he felt an inexplicable need to return to the place of his birth, to return home, to see the parents he had left years ago. He doubted that even T'Pol and her vaunted logic could make sense of this implacable need. He carefully timed his visit to coincide with the hour or two his father usually spent at the local pub enjoying a pint and a game of darts and chatting with other retired naval officers who lived thereabouts. It would be so much less hurtful if only his mother were there to turn him away.

His hand was shaking as it pressed the chime at the front door of the cottage. He looked about while waiting for an answer. He noticed the stark white planter beside the door and the huge geranium weighted down with bright red blooms and thick, deep green foliage that was the centerpiece of the box. Despite his fear, he had to smile. It reminded him so of "Nelson." The thought buoyed him, and he pressed the chime again. At last he heard movement inside. The door opened, and there was his Mum, garden trowel in hand, wearing a mud-stained smock and knee pads. He had clearly called her from the garden. Her eyes widened and she dropped the trowel. "Malcolm!" was all she said before throwing her arms about him and hugging him close. It was as if he had been enveloped by one of the strong vines of ivy that covered much of the small brick cottage.

She pulled away a bit to look at him. Her words tumbled out. "Malcolm, lad, it's so good to see you! Your father will be so pleased! You will stay for a bit, won't you? He'll be home soon. We're quite proud of you, you know. We've seen stories on the videos about how well you've done for yourself and received glowing letters from your officers and crewmates."

This was the last thing he'd expected, and it left him feeling somewhat dazed. He felt tears coming to his eyes and didn't know where to look, so he ended up looking down at the planter. He missed his mother's knowing smile. "That's your 'Nelson', Malcolm. You put so much of yourself into him. When you went off to America, to the Academy, he was all we had left of you. I've taken special care of him. I hope you approve." He couldn't trust himself to speak. He could only nod as he allowed himself to be drawn into the house for a nice cup of tea.


End file.
